


Just A Normal Week In Baker Street

by stravaganza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Crossdressing, Cuddles, Fluff, Implied Anal Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Penis Friday, Red Pants, Sexual Humor, Sherlockian Week, Tumblr, WTFuckery, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A celebration of the Sherlockian Week on tumblr!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red Pants (Monday)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Weekly Tumblr Calendar](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/11014) by muffinmoip. 



How does one understand when he is about to have a bad week?

Obviously it all depends on the Monday morning. Normal people like John used to be would say that a bad start of the day is to have someone’s coffee spilled over freshly washed clothes while at work, with no possibility of getting changed.

But to someone quite not so normal like John became over time, a bad start of the day, and therefore probably of the whole week, happens to be waking up next to a dead body. And it sadly was no metaphor: he literally woke up lying next to a dead body.

At first he wondered if it could be a dream, perhaps back to Afghanistan’s worst days, but then he wondered how probable it was for that body to be part of an experiment. And of course, the chances to have been kidnapped by a mad scientists were narrow – no, the experimenter would surely be his flatmate’s.

Indeed, when John managed to untangle himself from the corpse hugging him with such affection it could have been heart warming, the first thing he did was direct himself towards the door, to find the hallway and the stairs to the living room covered in body parts, some small and others larger, all of them stinking like only a one week old corpse could.

Or a person who slept hugging a one week old corpse, like John at that very moment.

He sighed and decided not to ask, not when his brain was still trying to get a grip over reality, not always an easy thing to do when living under Sherlock’s same roof.

John thanked various deities when opening the bathroom door upon finding the room gloriously clear of any body part, meaning either that Sherlock had some decency left or that the corpses were over.

When he exited the bathroom, utterly relaxed by a hot shower and all the morning rituals he could manage to perform in the quiet of his sanctuary, John literally stumbled over the harsh reality of the day once again, when he tripped on a foot. Not one of his own, mind you.

When he returned to his bedroom he opened the window to let the smell out, followed closely by his closet and his underwear drawer. He eyed his very narrow possibilities before groaning and choosing the only pair that seemed to be left in the whole closet, which was his pair of red pants. He slipped them on without many questions, adding on his mental list a memo to do the laundry.

He dressed without many other problems, and stepped on a severed ear while exiting the bedroom for the second time. Apparently the body parts were increasing in number. John crossed his arms over his chest, waiting, until he heard a huffing sound from the stairs. With a sigh, he waited for the huffer to show himself, the expected result being a panting Sherlock pushing a quite fat torso slowly up the steps.

When said man seemed to notice John, he simply shrugged at him before sending the round middle rolling across the hallway’s floor until it came to a stop against the bathroom door.

John followed him to the living room and kitchen, hurrying towards the kettle to brew some tea for himself and the madman, changing his mind as soon as he spotted a not very well conserved eye inside the pot, indeed brewing itself, that rolled up to look at him, perhaps in sympathy or in irritation upon being disturbed.

“Why.” John tried not to think about how many times that had been the first thing he had said in the morning since he moved in with Sherlock.

But of course, Sherlock simply waved his hand dismissively at him, resuming his task of storing cadavers in John’s quarters. He was in a silent mood again, then.

“We talked about this, experiments in your part of the house: your bedroom and your bathroom, no common zones and definitely not my bed.”

Without speaking Sherlock opened the door to his bedroom, and a finger rolled to a stop in front of John’s toes from a very large heap that seemed to start under the carpet in the room.

John rolled his eyes and moved to the hall, putting his shoes on.

“Alright. Get rid of this stuff before I come back home.”

He waited for Sherlock’s hand to signal an ‘OK’ before he dared getting out of the flat to go to work.

*

When he returned his hopes to find a clean flat were as narrow as the chances of Sarah forgiving him for spilling his coffee over her, but he had to reconsider his thoughts when he came back to a spotless living room and kitchen, with the dishes still drying out after having been washed, John hoped, throughout.

He explored the rest of the house to find it just as perfect, and entered in his room with a sense of satisfaction very rare indeed. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but he didn’t care as long as he had taken care of everything. John had already dismissed all of his clothes, except for his pants, when he opened his wardrobe to find something clean and more comfortable to put on. And once again, he found himself hugging what had been his bed mate, just fallen between his arms like a lover waiting to surprise him.

And indeed, surprised he was.

He barely had the time to sigh before the door opened with a loud: “John!”, but he had all the time of the world to feel as if he had just been caught in a compromising position by his wife.

This line of thoughts was getting ridiculous.

But there Sherlock stood, shocked, and John suspected it was not because of the cadaver as his eyes were fixed on John’s red-clad arse.

“I believe you are here to take care of this.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Your friend is a bit heavy and needs a shower.”

“I know.”

“Oh, _really_.”

John supposed it could have been comical to an external eye, but Sherlock wasn’t laughing and that would have preoccupied him if he hadn’t been so tired.

Eventually the detective moved forward, took the corpse from John’s arms and backed off without tearing his eyes away from his rear and without saying a single word about the matter.

*

It wasn’t until after dinner time, when they were both sated with Chinese takeaway and meditating, Sherlock sitting upside down on his armchair and John watching crap telly, that the ‘matter’ came out. And not from John, who should have been interested in the reason why his house was filled with corpses, but from Sherlock, whose only concern seemed to be another.

“Why do you own a pair of red pants?”

John snorted, and without looking away from the television’s screen he answered with a curt: “You don’t own a pair of pants you are ashamed of?”

“No,” came the reply after few instants, and John thought that of course not, Sherlock would own whole drawers full of branded underwear.

“Well, I do, and they appear to be this pair of red y-front here.” he said, pulling down the elastic band of his pyjamas bottom enough to show said y-front.

Sherlock’s eyes focused on what the cadaver earlier concealed, which was the quite prominent bulge comfortably held by the cotton of his underwear. Far too early for Sherlock’s taste the elastic band was released and snapped back to John’s belly, which caused the man to groan. Sherlock’s gaze shifted to his face, and moments later he was kneeling on the floor near to John’s outstretched legs.

John looked down at him with a frown, confused for a moment, before Sherlock lowered his trousers again, which caused him to purse his lips and look away, willing himself anywhere else but there and wishing Sherlock would stop staring at it like that.

Finally, tired and distressed, John turned the television off and stood up, opening the fridge to get a glass of water – ignoring the tongue resting over the eggs – and go to bed.

He was glad this day was over, and hoped not to live another one quite like that for a long time. Especially not one that ended with Sherlock staring at his crotch without doing anything to it.

A yawn suppressed that thought, and it didn’t emerge until the next morning, when upon opening his wardrobe John ended up showered in at least fifty pairs of red pants.


	2. Crossdressing (Tuesday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it should be Tranny Tuesday, but seen the complains about the offensiveness of this word I changed it in Crossdressing. No, I wasn't offended by it, but better not risk, don't want angry people at my door! And now, enjoy the chapter!

John hoped that wouldn’t be a sign of another weird day, his faith reinforced by the thought that he would spend most of it away from home and at the clinic, filling in both the day and night shift. If he was lucky, Tuesday was going to be his no-Sherlock day.

Not that he had anything against the bloke, of course. He was his best friend, a lovely mate and all, but always being around him could drive anyone mad and John was a soldier, not a saint.

He had some hours to spare before actually going to the hospital and decided to use them to do the laundry. After all, half of his clothing reeked of dead and the other half was in need of a wash up. And it was normal routine for the day, enough that when he passed by Sherlock’s room he found his hamper near the closed door waiting to be brought to the basement, were the washing machine was installed, by him.

John didn’t think much of it, but since he now had a life-lasting supply of red pants he wondered what kind of underwear Sherlock wore. As he put the clothes in the machine, passing shirt after sock after trousers, he found himself holding a pair of pants that must have been there by mistake. Because they were more like panties, to be honest. A pretty nice pair too.

They were frilly at every edge, very much so, their fabric soft and their texture smooth, and John felt a pang of envy run through him as he envied the woman who wore them. They probably felt really nice on delicate skin, but he would never fit in them. It wasn’t even his colour, he joked to himself; he would never wear such a delicate shade of purple. No, not purple, and not even violet. It was more like lilac, lavender perhaps, but he was no expert.

As he turned them between his hands, a thought occurred to John. They weren’t of any of his past girlfriends, and they surely weren’t his. And they were in Sherlock’s hamper, so... Had he found a partner of some sort? The idea caused him to grimace, and he was about to shove them in the washing machine anyways when the door slammed open and a blur of red stormed in front of his vision, grabbed the panties and fled.

John said nothing, but he kind of expected Sherlock to come back and claim the pair of velvety striped stockings he was holding up now.

*

Upon returning from his shift at the laundry room, John found Sherlock perched over his armchair in his best dressing gown, the red one, and in his best owl-like stare. By now, it wasn’t even too creepy anymore.

John handed him the hamper refilled with clean clothes, the stockings at the top of the heap, as a reminder to return them. Sherlock took it without saying a word, his eyes still following John’s movements until he exited the door again, minutes later, to go to work.

*

John returned earlier than expected from his night shift, refreshed by the absence of murders and blood stains in his day – well, except for nosebleeds and shallow wounds, of course – to find the flat exceptionally quiet.

He decided to enjoy the moment for a while, and was about to sit in his armchair, when he heard a series of clicking noises coming from Sherlock’s room. So, he was home. What on Earth would he be doing?

Curiosity took over his relaxed form and he tiptoed to the bedroom, decided to take him by surprise for some unknown reason that made him open the door without knocking. And the sight almost knocked him out.

Legs. There were kilometres of legs standing in a pair of white stiletto heels, clad in the stockings John had washed before, the light-and-dark pink vertical stripes making the legs seem even more long and pale.

As his eyes moved up, they found the same pair of panties he had almost washed that morning, the silk stretched to cover the most alluring bottom he would ever see, the delicate lavender hue just a tad darker than the stockings, almost matching their colour.

John licked his lips as he stared at the white, never ending expanse of smooth skin of the back attached to said arse and narrow hips, the vertebras and scapulas visible beneath the thin layer, up to such a lovely neck one would want nothing more but mark it with love bites, claim it his own, framed by a cascade of dark, soft curls.

No, they weren’t a cascade, John wouldn’t define them like that. He had always liked women with short hair, but when he caught the glimpse of the reflection of a face the breath caught in his throat. And the obvious owner of that wonderful body seemed to have caught a glimpse of John too, in the mirror in front of him.

When he turned around, Sherlock’s eyes were as wide as a child’s surprised stealing candies.

He was applying red lipstick to his already full lips, John noticed, as he noticed how his eyelashes seemed even longer than before, and his cheekbones more rosy. But that wasn’t make up, he decided it as soon as he saw the blush spread from Sherlock’s cheeks down his neck and chest.

Oh, how he wanted to sink his teeth in that pale flesh. Kiss these surprise-parted lips that showed the smallest hint of white teeth.

Wondering where these thoughts came from, John slowly backed off, his eyes still buried deep within Sherlock’s pale ones.

When he lied on his bed moments later and closed his eyes, John found Sherlock’s figure still burning behind his eyelids.


	3. Wanking (Wednesday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My only second attempt to pr0n, so be patient and sorry for the low quality. Enjoooooooy!

John gave up the thought of a peaceful day as soon as he woke up panting and gasping, his cock painfully hard and heavy between his legs. No, that won’t do, he had to go to work and- Oh. Right.

Wednesday, his day off.

Well, he had indeed had worse waking ups, so he wasn’t going to complain about this, but John knew from experience that if he wanked first thing in the morning he would then be lazy and heavy limbed for the rest of the day, and he couldn’t allow himself that. Not when the fridge was crying at its own emptiness and he had a to-do list longer than Sherlock’s legs to- Oh. Right.

Suddenly John remembered what his dream was about, and he was not happy. Nor amused. His body was taking a path his mind didn’t enjoy very much. He would have loved to, really, but after thirty-something years of straightness one would expect some sort of crisis after dreaming of shagging one’s male flatmate.

John sighed and lifted himself from the bed, heading for the shower. As the cold water cascaded over him he groaned with the relief it brought, not the kind he wanted but one close enough for all he cared.

Slipping on the third pair of red pants of the week, John dug out of the closet a clean pair of trousers and a jumper, wearing them quickly and dashing out of the house, not noticing the lonely hot mug of tea hopefully waiting for him on the kitchen table. If there was something John didn’t want at the moment, it was confrontation with the man that had occupied the hottest wet dream he had had in years.

But that wasn’t Sherlock’s wish either, and he was nowhere to be seen.

*

The day stretched on without any other difficulties. Not noticeable ones, at least.

Yes, alright, maybe John has had some problems every time he passed in front of a certain kind of shops. More than one kind, perhaps.

But really, he was only human, and it wasn’t his fault if the lacy pair of light blue-and-white checked panties stared right back at him from the windows, the white mannequins remembering him of someone just as pale.

It was a bit of a surprise when he found himself staring at a pair of black boxer briefs, wondering how these would fit Sherlock’s arse, but it didn’t last long before John managed to wrap his brain around it.

Just a human being, as it has been said, one that nobody should blame for the way he stared at the bright red leather corsets he saw through the window of a sexy shop on the other side of the road, which he had the decency to ignore fairly well.

Same thing couldn’t be said for a shop that seemed full of tight, short dresses that would show these legs so nicely...

John lost it at the fifth window exposing miniskirts. He had to physically slap himself in the face to stop from entering and buy the pale green one he saw from the street. The one with the folds that made it look like part of a school uniform. Add a pair of white stockings and those nice, shiny black shoes and…

“Fuck.”

An elderly woman glared at him before crossing the road for good measure.

*

It was full evening when John came back from his shopping, burdened with four bags full of groceries and a bladder full of liquids he had to get rid of.

He left his purchases on the kitchen table before shrugging off his coat and hurriedly reaching the first floor’s bathroom, almost moaning with relief at the heavenly sensation of emptying himself.

John flushed the toilet and washed his hands, turning to where the door had closed behind him and stopping as his hand reached for the handle. There, right in front of his eyes, was Sherlock’s red gown, innocently hanging from the hook behind the door. Silk, like the material that spread so nicely across Sherlock’s ass, red like John’s multiple pants. He took a deep breath or two, and then gave in.

Grabbing the gown felt almost like a crime in itself, but bringing it to bed was almost normal to John, seen what had happened recently to him. This was nothing in comparison.

As he lied down, John decided his heterosexual crisis was over and unbuttoned his trousers, lowering both them and his pants, and pulling his jumper up over his chest. He groaned when he brought the gown towards his mouth, the fabric brushing softly over his already stiffening prick, and closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply the scent held by the piece of clothing.

It smelt warm, no, hot. In the middle it smelt like sweat and tobacco, which made John cringe – _You smoking liar_ , he thought –, and the sleeves like chemicals substances he wouldn’t be able to identify even with his medical preparation. He moved the cloth around, pressing his nose against the collar, smelling honey and mint, the scent of Sherlock’s shampoos, moaning at the thought of burying his nose in his hair instead.

His other hand grasped firmly his cock, starting to stroke it slowly. He wondered if Sherlock would be slow and tease him, or eager and jerk him quickly to get what he wanted. And what would he want?

John tried to remember his dream, and he found it quite easy to do. Sherlock right there, his lovely cherry red lips wrapped tightly around his erection, his head bobbing up and down in earnest as his black lashes framed eyes kept staring at John, searching within his soul.

His fingers stroke briefly the base of his erection, like Sherlock’s had in his dreams, before John let his thumb slide over the sensitive tip like Sherlock’s tongue had. It was easy to imagine someone sucking him off, he had done it plenty of times. Only, that someone didn’t happen to be Sherlock.

But oh, how could it have been anyone else but him? His clever tongue, always so quick and sharp when talking, he could picture it molding against his cock, almost feel the softness of the tip sneaking under the foreskin covering the head of John’s erection.

As John pressed his thumb over the sensitive glands he felt some precome gather already, and he moaned. He wanted Sherlock to taste it, he wanted to fill his hot mouth with his flesh and tug at his hair so he could pull back to let John come all over his face.

John moaned again, the sound muffled by the fabric of the gown against which he now breathed open-mouthed, his hips thrusting up in his own fist, now tight around him. The slide of dry skin on dry skin wasn’t the best, and John ran his hand over the tip, spreading the clear liquid over its palm. When he resumed his pace he found out that it worked wonderfully as a lubricant.

Once again he couldn’t help but wish for Sherlock’s wet mouth to be around him instead of his damp hand, but he was so close already... Then he started imagining how it would be to pin Sherlock to the bed while he’s clad in these ridiculously frilly panties. He wondered which sounds he would make. Would he be shy, would he be demanding? Would he behave or would he prefer a power-play? Gentle and slow, fast and rough?

John gasped again as he moved his hand to wrap the silk of the gown around his erection, imagining how nice it would feel to rut against Sherlock’s hardness with only the thin layer of his underwear between them, how maddening it would be, and how long would it take for one of them to start begging?

He had barely the time to inhale again the strong scent that was purely Sherlock when it happened: John was too occupied to notice the opening and closing of the front door, but he couldn’t miss the distressed voice calling out for him, so distressed and frustrated that it could only fuel the fire in his groin.

“John!”

He came, shoving a fist inside his mouth to prevent from screaming and pressing the gown against his nose to take in as much of Sherlock as he could, his body quivering and muscles tightening before relaxing in a near collapse.

John barely had the time to register the steps up the stairs, pushing the gown under his bed and pulling his pants back up, before Sherlock entered his room. For a moment he stared at John like he was some sort of exotic animal, and the doctor had to hope he didn’t look as debauched as he felt to be. He had the decency to push his jumper back down over his stomach, enough to cover his peering pants, before asking in the calmest tone he could find.

“Yes?”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate on the doorframe for a moment, his gaze lingering over the spot John just hid, before he answered with a question of his own and asked:

“Have you seen my dressing gown?”


	4. WTF (Thursday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I wish I could say I was doing something important, but truth is I've been procrastinating all day (though I beat SoulSilver's Pokémon League, which is pretty important). Enjoy!

When John woke up, he thought two things. The first was, again, that he shouldn’t have come on Sherlock’s gown but that luckily the detective didn’t find it under his bed, so he could bring it to the dry cleaner; the second was that he was happy he had come the night before, or he would have woken up with another hard on and wouldn’t have been able to lean towards the warm figure next to him. And then a third thought occurred to him, one which he voiced loudly.

“What the fuck!”

He jerked away from the body beside his and fell from the bed, eyes still wide and panicked. A pillow ruffled head peered from the edge of the bed, its owner frowning.

“You didn’t react like this when it was a corpse. Interesting.”

John jolted up in a sitting position, his cheeks flushed as he watched Sherlock leisurely stretched over his stomach, legs crossed mid-air and head resting on a hand.

“I didn’t exactly because he wasn’t my flatmate, naked in my bed. Wait. Why are you naked?” John asked, noticing Sherlock’s bare arse. “Could you cover yourself?”

“I always sleep naked on Wednesdays and Fridays,” Sherlock shrugged, pulling the bed sheet over himself as John looked carefully away.

“Do I want to know why?”

“Do you?”

“It was rhetorical.”

“Ah.”

“And why you were in my bed?”

“I was cold?”

“Alright, yes. Logic. You stay here with your stuff chilling out, I’ll go shower.”

With this, John put his hands on the mattress’ edge and lifted himself up, trying not to look at Sherlock’s back as he went. Once on his feet, he tried to ignore the closeness of his groin with Sherlock’s propped face. He turned away and headed to the bathroom, closing the door behind him and locking it for good measure.

John took a deep breath; he could never get the hang of Thursdays.

*

Hours later John was peacefully returning from the clinic, strangely more relaxed by the time spent working than the morning waking up beside Sherlock. At least, when working he didn’t need to worry about his flatmate and his quirks, not to talk about his strangeness.

Because really, John pretty much adored the guy, but too much is too much. Climbing in his bed as he slept was definitely too much, even by Sherlock’s standards. Even more than dressing up with that sexy lingerie, because he was doing that in private and John wasn’t supposed to see it, and even more than dressing up as a fireman-

“What the fuck,” John said when he entered the living room to find Sherlock standing right in the middle, looking more like a fireman than a consulting detective.

“No?” the man asked, looking at himself. “Pity, thought this might work.”

“Well, you look exactly like a fireman, I’d say, but why? Is there a case?”

“Sort off,” Sherlock mumble, disappearing in his bedroom.

John sighed and prepared himself for something terrible, other than preparing himself a cup of tea. He knew the moment Sherlock’s door clicked closed that it was going to be a long evening. By the time the kettle whistled, he turned around to face a policeman dressed Sherlock. John shook his head, before repeating once he smirked at him:

“What the fuck?”

Sherlock then frowned and disappeared again in his room. By the time John sat down with a mug between his hands, Sherlock was back out and dressed like a milkman.

“What.”

By the time John had drunk half of his tea, Sherlock was out and dressed like a doctor.

“The.”

By the time John finished his tea, Sherlock was out and dressed like a clown, colourful make up and curly wig plus red nose and big shoes included.

“Fuck.”

Sherlock huffed again and turned to disappear behind the door to his bedroom once more, but this time John had stood up and grabbed his wrist to stop him.

“Sherlock, really, what’s going on? What’s this parade about, since it’s not a case? Exercising your disguising skills or showing off your costumes?” he asked, and Sherlock looked at him with the most serious expression a clown has ever worn.

“I was showing you my attires,” he explained.

“Yes, I can see that. Why?”

“Because you seemed interested in mine, the other day.”

“What att- oh God.” John groaned, as realization hit him. “It was, I was just, surprised that you were wearing woman’s underwear and all that stuff.”

John knew he was sounding ridiculous, but he didn’t have another excuse ready and he couldn’t conjure one as his face betrayed him, reddening like a pepper.

“And besides, you seemed interested in mine, too, on Monday. So much I found enough pants for two months in my closet!”

“Yes, I was,” Sherlock said calmly, quirking a curious eyebrow.

John pursed his lips and watched Sherlock’s painted face, trying not to laugh hysterically.

“Alright, yes, you did, good,” John nodded to himself, sighing. “And now what you are trying to do, exactly?”

“I was trying to find something else that could pique your interest. Though I think I’m too covered up for that, since you seemed rather interested when I was naked this morning.”

John gritted his teeth and looked at his feet, taking a deep breath.

“What time is it?” he asked, looking back up at Sherlock.

“About ten pm. Why?”

“Because it’s perfectly late and I have to go to bed,” John said, finally, before letting go of the other man’s wrist and dashing up the stairs.

When he tucked himself into bed he thought, once again, that he had never liked Thursdays and he was happy this particular one was almost over. But not enough, apparently, when after dozing off he reopened his eyes, probably only minutes later, to find a pirate staring at him, complete of hat, beard and living parrot on one shoulder.

“What the FUCK!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY THIS SUCKS SO MUCH, THE DELAY WAS DUE THE FACT I HAD NO IDEA WHAT TO WRITE ABOUT.


	5. Penis (Friday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smexy Times with 'Lock&John! Enjoy the (badly written) p0rn!

For the third time that week, when John woke up something felt wrong. More than one thing, actually.

The first thing he noticed was that the room was too dark for it to be morning. The second was that there was someone, yet again, in his bed. Someone alive, luckily. And the third was that this person was Sherlock, dressed up like an airline captain.

“Sherlock,” he said, matter of factly.

“John,” was the just as deadpan answer.

“What time is it?” John asked, turning to check his alarm. One am.

“You don’t want to know what I’m doing here, dressed like this?” Sherlock asked, propping himself up on his elbows.

“I suppose it’s some lingering Thursday Madness. Thanks God it’s Friday.”

John slumped back onto the bed and rubbed his face with one hand, sighing.

“Yes, thanks God you have a free morning on Friday.”

“No, I won’t spend it watching another parade of ridiculous costumes- What are you doing?”

By the time John had moved his hand away from his eyes and finished the sentence, Sherlock had doffed his jacket and had started undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“Experimenting,” he answered simply, pulling the shirt open and sliding it off his shoulders.

“Alright, yes. On what?” John asked, dreading the answer.

“You.”

Ah, there it was.

“And what kind of…” John started, but was interrupted when Sherlock crawled towards him and straddled his lap, knocking the breath out of him.

They stared at each other for a moment, Sherlock propped on his hands, one to either side of John’s head, looking down at him with the usual curiosity he has for dead bodies, and John looking up at him with the same lust-blown pupils he sported the day he caught Sherlock in the panties.

“And experiment about human bodies. Started with corpses, but since Monday I’ve started finding living ones… Interesting, as well,” Sherlock explained with a deep voice, and John couldn’t help but squirm under him.

“Mh, yes. So I’m just part of an experiment, good to know.” John hoped the disappointment would keep out of his voice as he said so.

“No, you’re more than that. You started this with these ridiculous pair of pants,” Sherlock retorted.

“What, the one you proceeded to fill my wardrobe with?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“You got a reaction out of me, the same reaction I suppose you got on Tuesday.”

John’s face reddened instantly.

“You got turned on by those?”

“Quite a bit.”

John laughed. “And what are you doing now, trying to find out other things that turn me on?”

“You and me. It’s a study in penises.”

John would have liked to think that was a joke, but Sherlock’s face was so serious that he had to ask.

“You didn’t say that.”

“I did. Is that a problem?”

“No, but it’s a turn off,” he said, resting his hands on Sherlock’s waist carefully.

“Enough talking, then,” the detective said before leaning in to kiss John.

At this point, John gave up any idea of protesting, and instead ran one hand up Sherlock’s back to grab a handful of black curls, tilting his head just so he could deepen the kiss properly. Seconds into it and John could already hear Sherlock moan softly against his mouth, the sound so desperate and needy that John couldn’t help but groan in return.

Moments later, Sherlock started grinding down against John’s groin, and the contact caused them both to pull away from the kiss to gasp loudly.

John moved his hands down to Sherlock’s waist, undoing his trousers, and the other did the same, tugging at his pyjamas bottom. They ended up with Sherlock rolling down from John’s lap to lay next to him, so they could keep kissing even as they struggled with their remaining clothes, until both were naked and gasping for air, their legs as intertwined as their tongues.

Their bodies, already slick with sweat, rubbed deliciously one against the other, and John grew louder as his cock hardened more and more against Sherlock’s. He couldn’t believe this, his fantasies were going to become true. He was about to find out how Sherlock liked to be taken, how he wanted things to go, how he needed to feel John.

“Wait…” Sherlock whispered, breaking the kiss, and John pulled his lower lip gently with his teeth.

“What is it?” he asked back, voice hoarse, pulling Sherlock closer with a hand on the middle of his back.

“I forgot something. I’ll be right back,” the detective assured, getting up and moving as quickly as he could to get out of the room.

Oh, right. They would need lube, and condoms, and something to clean them off, and maybe even a camera.

Wait. Why was Sherlock holding a camera?

“Sher-”

A flash of light made John momentarily blind, and he covered himself with the sheet out of reflex.

“Sherlock, no! Stop!”

“I told you this was a study in penises.”

“I hoped you were kidding!”

Flash.

“Nope, sorry.”

That was it. John growled and stood from the bed, launching himself a the detective and slamming him back onto the mattress, straddling his hips and pinning his wrists down.

“That’s it, fast and rough it is,” he decided.

Sherlock was about to open his mouth to protest, but a bruising kiss and a finger already probing curiously around his entrance made him quiet. After few minutes of kissing and teasing, John leaned back up to take a big gulp of air, before glaring down at him.

“No camera,” John ordered.

“No camera,” Sherlock replied, looking up at him a bit dazedly.

“No experiments, nothing else but us and sex. Is that alright?” John demanded, his inner Captain showing.

“Alright,” Sherlock squeaked out, and to John it must have been enough, seen how he leaned down again to growl into Sherlock’s ear: “You must always be an insufferable prat, don’t you?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but gasped when John grabbed his cock tightly and started stroking it.

“Really, I should teach you what’s your place…” he growled, biting at the spot behind Sherlock’s ear.

The man under him started trembling lightly, but the twitching in his hand told John it had nothing to do with fear. And then, just two minutes after he had started touching the other to test his reactions, John felt Sherlock writhe and moan, and something hot and thick cover his hand.

“Seriously?” was all John managed to say.

“I told you it was a study,” Sherlock panted, looking at the ceiling. “If it’s a study it’s because I don’t know much about the subje-”

His speech was cut off when John shoved him off the bed and gave his back to him, trying to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T.G.I.P.F.


	6. Otter & Hedgehog (Saturday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit harder, but I think the result is not bad! Enjoy!

The first, decent morning of the whole week was the one of Saturday morning, when John opened his eyes to find a warm body curled up against his, this time after being invited in.

The rest of the Friday was so uneventful that John understood that the worst was over, and this hellish week was about to become more bearable. John had been to work, had retrieved Sherlock’s gown from the dry cleaner, had had a nice cuppa and a quiet night in front of the telly. When Sherlock returned from God only knew what, apparently still offended at how John had treated him the night before, he hurriedly went to his bedroom and didn’t come out until John turned the television off and headed to bed.

John smirked at the man whose head was now nestled under his chin, remembering how he had come out of his bedroom with nothing but his bed sheet on, ready to follow John.

“I told you I sleep naked on Fridays”, was all he said before climbing onto his bed, and John not only let him, but smiled when he felt Sherlock’s hands move over his body to take his pyjamas off.

Which is why, as we were saying, he woke up more than happily, his naked form pressed against Sherlock’s, whose welcomed heat and scent invaded his bed happily.

John leaned down to nibble gently at his neck, smiling against it when he felt Sherlock stir from his sleep.

“Good morning,” he said, and the detective mumbled something in response.

“Sorry, what?” asked John, not sure to have understood correctly.

“I said, otter and hedgehog,” Sherlock repeated, groggily pressing himself flatter against John.

“And why did you say it…?”

“Because I dreamt them,” Sherlock explained, shaking his head to let the fog coating his mind dissipate.

“Why on Earth did you...”

“How should I know?” Sherlock interrupted John, sliding down his body and under the covers until he could kiss good morning to his hard-on.

Everything John would have liked to say died on his tongue, a strangled moan of surprise taking over his speech faculties. John thread his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and lifted the duvet with his other hand, looking down at the other man, who in return pulled harshly the cover down before stroking at his cock.

“Yesterday you seemed pissed off because I came too early, so now it’s your turn.”

John wanted to say that no, that wasn’t necessary after all, he didn’t have to, but every thought reached his ability to talk in hell when he felt that delicious heat and the perfect wetness and oh God his tongue was really clever in every way.

The morning trailed off with Sherlock hiding under the blanket with John’s erection, most certainly keeping on with his experiments about penises, his ‘study’, which John couldn’t say he minded too much.

At first, there was an experimental blowjob: Sherlock had started slowly, kissing his shaft and swirling his tongue over it calmly, looking for the spots that made John squirm and occasionally squeal. Then he began suckling here and there, to see what effect that would have over the hardened flesh. And finally he started taking John into his mouth, more and more, until the doctor literally yelped in surprise when the head of his cock touched the back of Sherlock’s throat. From there, with just a few sucks and strokes with his tongue, Sherlock had John coming in his mouth in less than five minutes.

When John moved the cover aside, he found a heavy breathing, deep-red flushed Sherlock staring still at his dick as if it was some kind of dangerous animal, a droplet of come at the corner of his mouth that he hurriedly wiped away, embarrassed. He looked so delicious that John regretted having just come.

But Sherlock was pretty satisfied like this and didn’t ask for anything in return, choosing instead to lie back against John.

*

That evening, when John was once again relaxing in his armchair, reading a book, Sherlock came out from his bedroom with his hand behind his back, hiding something. John sighed, knowing that the day was too perfect to last, and put his book aside.

“What is it, Sherlock?” he asked, and the taller man shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

John was ready to snap at him, when finally Sherlock spoke.

“When I went out yesterday it was to work on a case at a toy shop, and the owner was so grateful that I returned what he was robbed of that he decided to give me something in turn. And I chose this.”

When he moved his hands from behind his back, he was holding a stuffed otter out to John, who stared at him in disbelief.

“A, uh, well. It’s, it’s very nice,” John said, rubbing at his chin to hide a growing smirk. He didn’t think Sherlock was still the plushie sort of man.

“It’s for you,” he said in fact, with a somewhat shy smile on his face.

John blinked and looked up from the otter, his mouth slightly parted in surprise.

“Me?”

Sherlock nodded, smiled a bit more and gave John the toy, looking like a child who wanted to impress a parent.

“Do you like it?”

John smiled instantly at the almost childish tone, and looked at the otter between his hands.

“Yes,” he said, eyes back to Sherlock. “Very much. Thank you. But you didn’t have to… I mean, I had forgiven you this morning.”

“I know, but I still thought it would be nice…” Sherlock smiled, and John stood up.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said, reaching out to grab his hand.

Few hours later, after they were both spent and John was asleep, Sherlock removed a chip from the camera hidden in the otter’s head, grinning widely at the thought of all the material John had provided him with for his study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The week is almost over... Stay tuned for the last chapter!


	7. Fluff (Sunday)

Finally Sunday, the lazy day, was over them, and John could spend if he wanted the whole day in bed with Sherlock. He found himself liking the thought pretty much, but when his hand touched the bed, searching for the other, he found no traces of his presence there.

Strange. He was sure to have fallen asleep embracing him, to the very least. To be honest, he nearly fell asleep inside him, just right after com-

John groaned and shook the thought away. No, a morning wood wouldn’t do him any good without Sherlock nearby. So, instead of indulging in his thoughts, John got up from the bed and put on a random pair of pants, strangely finding a white one instead of the usual red.

He moved to the living room and found Sherlock sat there in his armchair, his red dressing gown wrapped tightly around his, John noted, naked form. The doctor smiled as he approached him, and he sat on the armrest near to him, watching the telly together for some moments. That, that was very nice indeed.

After a while, John spoke up: “How long have you been awake?”

“Few hours,” was the calm response.

“Do you want some tea?”

“No, thank you. I already had coffee.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s arm gently as he stood again, and felt him flinch under his touch lightly. He frowned, confusedly, but refrained from asking.

*

As lazy as any Sunday was supposed to be, case and trouble free, the day stretched on without any ado, risking at some point around mid-afternoon to become boring. Sherlock was reading a book, sprawled comfortably on the couch and not making a sound, and John had spent most of the last hour staring at him, trying to understand what was wrong.

It was quiet. All too quiet. Something was wrong, and either Sherlock was hiding something from him or something was bothering him. And, therefore, bothering John. Because, secretly, he had hoped for a post-meridian snuggling session, which he was not getting.

And so a thought hit him, and he gaped slightly. Oh. Oh, right! How could he have been so oblivious?

“Sherlock?”

“Mmh?”

John took a deep breath and looked at his feet, as the detective kept reading on.

“I think we need to talk.”

Sherlock seemed to freeze, and although his expression didn’t waver the muscles in his body went rigid.

“Do tell.”

“What happened between us… I know you started it, with experimental purposes, but I don’t think it was just that, was it?”

This seemed to get Sherlock’s attention, because he lowered the book and looked right at John, who cleared his throat.

“I wanted to tell you that it’s, it’s alright how you feel, and that I… Damn it, Sherlock, I am more than okay with that! In fact, I return it fully- I, I kind of lo-”

John was cut short by Sherlock’s lips on his. How the man had moved so quickly from the couch to John’s armchair it was a mystery, but it probably involved walking over the coffee table.

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock said in such a tone that John had never heard but would most certainly define sweet.

“Alright…” he smiled softly, pulling Sherlock closer by wrapping his arms around his waist. “But I do mean it.”

Sherlock scanned his face for a moment before nodding slowly. “I know. I… Too. Yes. Me too,” he mumbled, and the other laughed, nuzzling their noses together.

“I’m glad to know. So, can we make this afternoon one of senseless cuddling?”

Sherlock bit his lip and seemed, for a brief moment, unsure about what to say. But then he simply nodded and kissed John again, resting his hands on the back of his neck and keeping him as close as possible, as if afraid he would go away.

They squatted themselves into the armchair, somehow fitting together onto the cushion, nuzzling one against the other, noses on necks, lips on ears and cheeks on cheeks.

Now, this was what John defined a perfect, lazy Sunday afternoon. They watched the television, not really paying it any mind, and kept pecking each other gently as if exploring their faces for the first time.

“I thought it was only an experiment, at first,” John confessed quietly.

“I thought it was just a cross-dressing kink,” Sherlock retorted with a small chuckle.

“Well, I admit that helped with the heterosexual crisis.”

“Oh, I bet it has been like a catharsis.”

John shoved him in the shoulder playfully, and Sherlock grabbed his wrist with another laugh.

“You are unbelievably annoying even when I’m trying to be sweet.” John did his best to sound annoyed.

“I bet that’s why you like me so much.”

“That and because you have a nice arse. Be thankful.”

“Oh, thank you mum and dad for not giving me Mycroft’s fat constitution.”

John snickered in laughter again, and Sherlock joined him soon after.

When the afternoon gave way to the evening, and the dinner was quickly arranged with a call at the near Taiwanese take away, everything seemed settled. This strange, eventful week was over, and although all that he had gained, red pants included, John couldn’t say it was going to miss it. He knew that, with Sherlock, he was soon to wake up on stranger days, and he knew that with Sherlock he was going to like them all.

“John?”

“Mmh?”

“Would you like a stuffed hedgehog, too? I still have this part of my study to unwind…”

“What? And what does the hedgehog have to do with it?”

“Oh- never mind.”

John sighed and shook his head. Yeah, probably better if he kept out of that.

“Come on, let’s go to bed,” he said with a smile, and Sherlock’s lips curled mischievously in return.

When they turned the lights on and curled one against the other, John closed his eyes and prepared himself for just another normal week in Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's all, folks! Thanks for being here, I've loved this little fic of us! See you for the next one!

**Author's Note:**

> Please, consider buying me a coffee on [my ko-fi page](http://ko-fi.com/stravaganza)! I'd really appreciate your support!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Just A Normal Week In Baker Street - Book Cover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/498269) by [stravaganza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza)




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